steady, the short range not requiring the extra velocity a charging horse would give them.
At least one javelin missed…by a hair. For a moment it seemed that Little Zoran would escape. But the Turk’s horses were swifter and better handled. One cut ahead of him, making his mount shy away; he had thrown the one jereed allowed, could not strike. Neither could the other, slipping to Zoran’s other side, enclosing him. But they drove him towards a man who could—Mehmet, who’d snatched up the jereed he’d missed with and held his horse unmoving in the center of the field.
There was nothing Vlad and the others could do. They could only watch as the two straddling horsemen delivered the Croatian to their prince, like hounds driving quarry to the hunter’s bow. Mehmet let him come closer, closer, then suddenly he leaned back and hurled his weapon forward. It smashed into the boy’s face. From his shriek of agony, just before he tumbled from his mount, all knew that he was badly hurt. When he reached the ground he did not move. Mehmet’s arm raised in triumph as he rode back to his line.
Slaves ran out. The game always paused for injury, so Vlad and the others urged their horses forward, reaching the fallen before the running men. In a moment Vlad had dismounted, in another he had the boy turned and his head in his lap.
“Christ save me,” he murmured, crossing himself. The face was wrecked, the nose smashed sideways across the cheek, one eye already blackening, swollen shut. The boy was choking and Vlad sat him up, struck him square in his back. Blood and bone shot onto the dust.
“Jesu,” said Ion, dismounting, kneeling.
On his horse, Radu turned away. “How…?”
As men ran up, as several reached to lift the unconscious boy, Vlad walked a few paces, then bent down. “This is how,” he said, picking up Mehmet’s jereed . The leather, padded cap that would have prevented the worst of the damage was dangling to the side, exposing the turned poplar tip. “He’s gouged out the rivets,” he said, “He’ll deny it, of course, but—”
“The dog!” said Ion, rising, fury shaking him. “I’ll—”
“Wait!” said Vlad, remounting. “We’ll do this. But we’ll do it right.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Will Wallachians heed me at least?”
Both youths nodded. As Zoran was carried away, they rode for their own line. Glancing back, Vlad could see Mehmet, dismounted, surrounded by his seven companions. They were passing a skin bottle amongst them, already celebrating their certain victory with fermented asses’ milk. For a moment, Vlad felt a distinct tightening in his groin. Then, mastering himself, he turned to the others. “Listen carefully. We will have to do with three what I had planned for eight.”
“But brother,” Radu muttered, his voice still tearful, looking nervously to the other end of the field, “none of them has been hit. They can ride all eight against us. We won’t stand a chance.”
“Know your enemy, Radu. Mehmet will not miss a chance to show off to his people…”—he gestured to the spectators—“those he was ruling two months ago, and will no doubt, rule again. He’ll want to prove he is invincible. And he’ll want to beat me, man against man. If he could wield the knife himself, and remove what separates me from Allah, he would do so.” Vlad winced. “His weakness is his pride. If three of us ride out to challenge them, only three will take the challenge. He will be one. So this is what we must do.”
He spoke quickly, need driving him. And it was a simple enough plan. His father had once told him that, on the battlefield with all its infinite complications, simplicity was usually best. He could only hope the same applied on the field of jereed .
“They are mounting,” Ion said.
“And we already are,” replied Vlad. “Let’s seize the ground.” And, with a touch of heels on Kalafat’s flanks, Vlad led his countrymen forward.
Mehmet rose
At least one javelin missed…by a hair. For a moment it seemed that Little Zoran would escape. But the Turk’s horses were swifter and better handled. One cut ahead of him, making his mount shy away; he had thrown the one jereed allowed, could not strike. Neither could the other, slipping to Zoran’s other side, enclosing him. But they drove him towards a man who could—Mehmet, who’d snatched up the jereed he’d missed with and held his horse unmoving in the center of the field.
There was nothing Vlad and the others could do. They could only watch as the two straddling horsemen delivered the Croatian to their prince, like hounds driving quarry to the hunter’s bow. Mehmet let him come closer, closer, then suddenly he leaned back and hurled his weapon forward. It smashed into the boy’s face. From his shriek of agony, just before he tumbled from his mount, all knew that he was badly hurt. When he reached the ground he did not move. Mehmet’s arm raised in triumph as he rode back to his line.
Slaves ran out. The game always paused for injury, so Vlad and the others urged their horses forward, reaching the fallen before the running men. In a moment Vlad had dismounted, in another he had the boy turned and his head in his lap.
“Christ save me,” he murmured, crossing himself. The face was wrecked, the nose smashed sideways across the cheek, one eye already blackening, swollen shut. The boy was choking and Vlad sat him up, struck him square in his back. Blood and bone shot onto the dust.
“Jesu,” said Ion, dismounting, kneeling.
On his horse, Radu turned away. “How…?”
As men ran up, as several reached to lift the unconscious boy, Vlad walked a few paces, then bent down. “This is how,” he said, picking up Mehmet’s jereed . The leather, padded cap that would have prevented the worst of the damage was dangling to the side, exposing the turned poplar tip. “He’s gouged out the rivets,” he said, “He’ll deny it, of course, but—”
“The dog!” said Ion, rising, fury shaking him. “I’ll—”
“Wait!” said Vlad, remounting. “We’ll do this. But we’ll do it right.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Will Wallachians heed me at least?”
Both youths nodded. As Zoran was carried away, they rode for their own line. Glancing back, Vlad could see Mehmet, dismounted, surrounded by his seven companions. They were passing a skin bottle amongst them, already celebrating their certain victory with fermented asses’ milk. For a moment, Vlad felt a distinct tightening in his groin. Then, mastering himself, he turned to the others. “Listen carefully. We will have to do with three what I had planned for eight.”
“But brother,” Radu muttered, his voice still tearful, looking nervously to the other end of the field, “none of them has been hit. They can ride all eight against us. We won’t stand a chance.”
“Know your enemy, Radu. Mehmet will not miss a chance to show off to his people…”—he gestured to the spectators—“those he was ruling two months ago, and will no doubt, rule again. He’ll want to prove he is invincible. And he’ll want to beat me, man against man. If he could wield the knife himself, and remove what separates me from Allah, he would do so.” Vlad winced. “His weakness is his pride. If three of us ride out to challenge them, only three will take the challenge. He will be one. So this is what we must do.”
He spoke quickly, need driving him. And it was a simple enough plan. His father had once told him that, on the battlefield with all its infinite complications, simplicity was usually best. He could only hope the same applied on the field of jereed .
“They are mounting,” Ion said.
“And we already are,” replied Vlad. “Let’s seize the ground.” And, with a touch of heels on Kalafat’s flanks, Vlad led his countrymen forward.
Mehmet rose
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